The Girl I Was Before (19 page)

It will get messy.

When my toes touch hers, I finally let my eyes move from her mouth to her eyes. She’s wearing her warrior face; her lids lowered slightly to dare me—to show me how strong she is, to prove she’s not the one giving me permission. But she isn’t running. She isn’t yelling. She isn’t protesting. She’s scared.

Fuck, I’m scared. I get scared. And my life is scary. I don’t come into anything alone. I’m a package.

But she isn’t running.

I’m slow with my hand, and when she sees my fingers near her cheek, her breath hitches again.

“I like you, Paige,” I repeat, my voice a whisper, my lips close to her ear. I barely remember how to do this, how to do any of this, but every movement, every word with her right now feels so natural. “I don’t want to. You don’t want me to. But I do. And so do you. And we can keep fighting, and you can walk away from things, and you can yell at me when nothing makes sense, and you don’t have anyone else to blame. I’m okay with that. I’ll be that guy. Even though part of me doesn’t want to. That part is fucking terrified. But the rest of me…”

I step back again, my hand fully on her cheek now, her weight resting on me, her eyes closed, lips still trembling.

“The rest of me just wants to kiss you,” I say, closing the inches quickly until my lips touch hers, surprise hers, claim hers and quell her fears all in one action. Her protest is short, and soon her hands find my shoulders and then my back and she pulls me into her. My hands are holding her face, and we both walk backward until her back is against my door.

I reach with one hand, frantic to find it—desperate to open the damn door. Panicked that if I break this contact she’ll stop, that she’ll slap me…that she’ll go back to not wanting to…
anything
. When I get the door open, we both fall inside, but our lips never part, our grip remains tight on one another. Reaching with one hand, I close the door behind us gently, not wanting to make any sound that could possibly get us caught.

This cannot be interrupted. It’s still too new, too at risk for being the only time I get to feel this. Goddamn does she taste like the most expensive drink I’ve ever had. Scooping her into my arms, I pull her even closer to me, until my legs hit the bed. I don’t want her to think anything other than this kiss is enough. I’ve thought about more. Fuck, I think about
more
twenty-three of my twenty-four hours, dreaming when I’m sleeping, daydreaming when I’m awake. But this kiss—it’s enough right now.

Her mouth breaks from mine long enough for her to breathe, and our foreheads fall together, my hands still cupping her face, memorizing every curve and contour of her cheeks, chin, mouth. Her eyes finally open to mine, and her hands move from my back to the sides of my face, her fingertips reaching into my hair. Her bottom lip is caught in her teeth, and just when I think I see worry—maybe even regret—flash in her features, her lip curves up into a smile.

“I might like you a lot,” I say, and she giggles, her breath soft and sweet.

She places one hand flat against my chest, putting pressure on me, urging me to sit. I do as she says, but I keep my eyes on hers just in case she changes her mind, my hands holding hers, relishing the feel of her fingertips, the softness of her skin. She crawls onto my lap, straddling me with one leg on either side until she’s completely wrapped herself around my waist, and simply the feel of the weight of her, of holding her…
like this,
awakens my most basic male instincts. My eyes close, and I growl a deep moan into her neck, my hands finding her ass, fingers teasing the line of her lace panties, and pulling her closer to me until her lips are again only a beat away from touching mine.

I watch her eyes for permission, dragging my hands around her body, up her thigh, to her hips and sides until my thumbs feel the perfect curve of her breasts. I leave her eyes, only for a few seconds, because her body has been invading my thoughts for too long for me not to see how it reacts when I touch her. I let my fingers linger at her ribs, my thumbs caressing the roundness, sliding cautiously until my thumbs run over the hardness of her nipples. As they do, her legs clutch onto me, and her body rolls into mine, pressing into me so hard I know there is no way she doesn’t feel everything I’m feeling. There are no more secrets. I want her—every single piece.

“You feel…I’m sorry, but you feel fucking fantastic,” I say, my breathing heavy and the pressure of everything in my pants truly the only thing I can focus on. She laughs again, the breathy kind, almost like panting. Fuck, I think she’s panting.

“I don’t know what Ty told you, or what you’ve heard about me, but I need to take this slow, Houston. I want you, but this is…it’s just…you’re so much,” she says, her head resting on mine, her hands against my face. My fingers are digging into her sides, fighting against the animal urge.

I laugh at her words. “I’ve been called big, but too much?” I joke, and she shoves me to my back, her hands on my chest, her hair cascading down her face, her center pressing even harder on mine. Oh my god slow is going to kill me.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, her smile almost bashful. Beautiful.

I reach up and sweep her hair behind her, running my thumb over her cheek. “I know. I know what you meant. And honestly, if all I ever got to do again was kiss you, I’d be fine with that,” I say, letting my hand trace her shoulder and then stop again at her ribs before moving slowly up her unbelievably perfect breasts.

“That’s a lie,” I say, letting my thumbs tease across her nipples once more. “Kissing is good for now, but I’m pretty sure if all I ever got to do was kiss you I’d die.”

She laughs at my confession, but lets it fade into this sexy, sinister smile as her hands run up my arms until her fingers intertwine with mine against her breasts, squeezing them and pulling at her skin. I let her guide my hands lower to her legs, running them up her thighs, pushing the edge of her night shirt up higher until now I can see the pink lace of her underwear, the shirt that once draped to her knees now bunched around her waist. She moves my hands back around her, until I’m gripping her ass again hard, her body moving against mine in a purposeful sway, and she lets her head fall back, her hair falling in waves along her shoulders, her lips parting as she moans.

She moves her head back to face me, leaning forward, her hands running along my chest and down my arms, purposefully, and then she stops as her mouth hovers above mine. “I’m pretty sure it would kill me too, but for tonight, that’s the line,” she says, waiting for me to accept.

I do. Of course I do. And I grab her head and kiss her hard and roll her on her back underneath me and relish the next hour that she lets me have her lips, taste her neck, and let my hands roam, but never too far. She’s the one to pull away. I let her be the one to say when this moment is over, because I will forgo sleep.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say this was a mistake, and she doesn’t look sad. She looks worried. But underneath, she’s also hungry. And I know she’ll be back, and I know that the kissing line will move a little farther. I also know that I love gambling, and I’m pretty sure I’m addicted.

And my poker face is just fine.

P
aige

I
s
this what falling for someone is supposed to feel like? I wake up every morning—after sneaking away late at night, tiptoeing from Houston’s room back to mine—feeling…alive. When I’m with him, there is no video, no pitiful freshman year, no former Delta-sisters, or blackmail drug-photos locked away in my phone and computer. No drama. There’s just Houston, and me—and kissing. Lots and lots of kissing.

What’s strange is how he always holds that line. Maybe, in a way, I’ve been testing him these last few nights, to see if his hands would roam a little more, if he’d pressure me. He doesn’t. I think maybe this is also what a gentleman is like.

I see why Beth loved him.

When I look at myself, I don’t see a person trying to pretend to be anything other than who I am. With Houston, I’m me—I’m my flaws and my good stuff all at once. And he seems to want both parts. Being with him isn’t exhausting. There is no worry—other than the fear that Leah will catch me during one of my late-night trips, or that his mother will ask about us.

I worry about that a lot. But when we’re kissing, I worry about it
less.

Maybe it’s just the sneaking around I enjoy. Houston and I share this secret, and it’s distracting—
unbelievably distracting.
I’ve had moments this week where I start to think he’s in a place different from me with this thing we’re doing. Sometimes I think he might be taking us too seriously, and the next I think that he’s not taking us seriously enough. Truth is, I’m not sure what place
I’m
in with this thing we’re doing. All I know is that when his hands are on me, I feel safe. I don’t feel the need to pretend everything’s okay. Everything just…is.

I hate that I ever let a guy touch me just because I was afraid of losing him. My sister was like that, and I persecuted her for it. Turns out I wasn’t so different.

With Houston, it’s more than the kissing, than the touching—than the thought of him crossing that line and the tease of temptation. Houston looks at me as if I’m more than some hot score. He doesn’t slap my ass then want me out of his way as soon as he’s done. He wants to talk. He wants to listen. We don’t have many secrets left. In fact, I don’t think he has any. All I have are those photos on my phone, the ones that started this all. I don’t bring them up…because I’m not sure they make me any better than Chandra now. She leaked a video. I leaked some photos. Of course, mine were real. I haven’t thought about them for days. It seems the world’s forgotten about them, too. Turns out—money
can
stop the Internet.

Houston left early this morning, leaving me alone to get ready for class and to eat breakfast downstairs with his mom and Leah. Thank god for Leah; she fills the silence with constant questions about the story I told her the other night and with her plans for the next time we play. She’s maybe the most precious little girl I’ve ever met. But…I don’t want to be her mother.

Which, of course, means this thing with Houston, it can’t…

“Leah, you need to get your shoes on so we can make it to the church in time for the puppet lady,” Joyce says, her voice coming out in a singsong way that makes Leah obey. I bet she raised Houston with that same voice, and I bet it’s why he’s so attentive and willing to listen.

“Thank you,” I say to Joyce as she pulls my plate from the table and moves it to the sink. She’s fed me almost every meal that I’ve had since I’ve been here. I was thinking about it last night, and I should really try to contribute more. I have points on my meal plan I can use for things.

“It’s nice having you here,” she says, her smile lingering a little longer than it should. It feels like she’s working the muscles to make sure it stays in place. I don’t get the impression that she doesn’t like me, but there’s something underneath—I can tell.

“I want to help out, maybe shop for some groceries when I can? Is there anything that I can get? I could go later today,” I say.

Her smile gets tighter, and I’m expecting her to speak long before she finally does. “Get whatever you would like. We’re fine with what we have,” she says, turning from me so I can’t see her face. I get the sense those words are talking about more than the food in the pantry.

“All right, well thank you, again,” I say, my voice weaker. I’m gathering my backpack and things when I hear Leah skipping down the stairs, so I pause at the back door to make sure I say goodbye to her for the day. Before I fully turn, I feel her arms around me, her face nuzzled into my side, and she kisses my hip.

“Have a good day,” she says.

“Oh…thank you. You too,” I say, a little stunned by her affection. I glance back up at Joyce—her worried smile still the same. I understand it a little more.

Leah.

This isn’t about me and Houston
—
her concern is about me…and Leah.

I leave without voicing any of the nonverbal conversations Joyce and I just had. Houston’s mother is warm and wonderful. Much of her reminds me of my mom, only far less flighty. Joyce is strong, and she’s very much the glue that holds this house together. I respect that. She and I are more similar than she knows—we’re both protectors. Which means as welcome as she makes me feel, she also prefers me to leave everything exactly as I found it. And maybe a week ago, I would have.

Before I let him in that little bit more.

Before he believed me.

Before my heart latched on to the feeling it gets when he comes home, when I see him, when he calls.

Oh my god,
somehow I’ve turned into one of those girls, the kinds who have crushes! I’ve been hot for guys. I’ve chased guys, flirted, won them over, made them mine. I’m like a conqueror when it comes to making boys obey. But Houston is like…he’s like an invasion! I like him more than I’m ready to admit. Maybe I just admitted to it.
Damn it
—that thought is in there now. I admit it. If I had a girlfriend left to talk to, she probably wouldn’t be able to shut me up about Houston. There’s one benefit to being shunned—no witnesses for my descent into happily-ever-afters and fairytales.

My lab class is biology, and the lecture room is very clinical. Clinical—yes, I need the white board, the sterile metal chairs. Nothing in that room looks like hearts and flowers. If only the lecture promised to be interesting enough to distract me. I’ve only been to a few this semester, but so far, the lessons feel like everything I already learned in high school. It makes me wonder what my parents are paying for, and why I can’t just move into studying what I want to be doing. I take the long route to class whenever I can, just so I can pass the architecture and design building. I love watching the students in the design lab work with colors and textiles. As I pass by today, they’re working with mood boards on giant monitors, which makes the building look even more like a real interior-design shop—just like the ones on the same street as my mom’s bead store in Burbank. I’ve already been promised internships there for the summer.

I wouldn’t mind spending the summer here either.

That thought comes out of nowhere. Staying here—in Oklahoma? That’s never even been a consideration for me. Like…ever. This thought. It’s Houston’s fault. I will forever keep it to myself. I’ll probably just go home, stick to the plan, so no harm. No need to ever let that thought pop into my head again.

Butterflies.

Fairytales.

Motherfuck!

As I step into the lecture room, my pocket vibrates with my phone, and I pull it out quickly to take the call—glad to have something extract me from that weird fantasy of staying here, of a more permanent here. Of…here…with Houston.

Leah, Leah, Leah. I repeat her name in my head before answering my phone. That’s the only word that grounds me. Leah’s all about reality—
big time
reality.

“Me and Rowe want pizza. Lunch. Ditch the class,” Cass says the second I answer. I look up at the clock, and it’s not quite yet ten. My lab goes until one—it was either this class or a night one, and I hate the idea of school ruining my evening. Of course, when I made my schedule, I had planned on being at parties on Friday nights or out with the girls.

Plans change.

Somehow, my first year at college was revolving around school and studies, and less on social things.

“It’s still breakfast time. My palate is not ready for that,” I say moving to an aisle seat near the middle. I’ve learned the routine—about a half an hour of lecture then we move to the lab for the day’s project. The stupid sterile, metal chairs snag my clothes when I walk through the rows. Aisle seats are the only way to go.

“You and your uppity, snooty-ass palate. Palates don’t have anything to do with pizza. Boo, I’m super hungry, and I can’t wait until one. I went six miles this morning,” Cass whines, accentuating each word just to irritate me.

“That voice? That’s never going to work on me, just FYI. Look, wait until twelve thirty or so, and I can meet you. I’ll be done by then with whatever lame thing we’re doing in here today,” I say.

“Fine,” Cass huffs. “But you’re eating pizza then. None of that salad and rabbit food crap you pull.”

“Whatever,” I say, clicking my phone to silent and slipping it in the side of my bag. I turn to face the seat and my legs come square with another set, and when I look up I realize they belong to a pair of khaki pants and a plain button-down, tucked in to perfection—the bearded chin trimmed neatly as if to mimic the perfect lines of the horn-rimmed glasses that sit above. It’s the professor.

“Glad to know that my
lame
plans for the day aren’t going to interfere with whatever that was,” he says, circling his finger in the air, pointing to the pocket I stuffed my phone in. I’m not a big fan of being made an example of—clearly.

“No, they shouldn’t,” I say, lips tight as I take my seat and pull out my notebook and pen.

“Shouldn’t what?” he asks. Heads are turning now. He picked the wrong example to make.

“Your tired, decade-old lesson plans for class shouldn’t interfere with my lunch plans,” I respond. He remains in his place for a few seconds, brow lowered—then chuckles to himself and raps his knuckles on my desktop as he continues his path to the front of the class. A few girls sitting a row in front of me are still turned my direction. I don’t look up again, only raising my finger and twirling it so they know the show is over and they can face the front again.

The professor begins speaking and writing notes, most of which I recognize—from high school a year ago—about the various parts of the spine. The few times we make eye contact, there’s a silent acknowledgement of our brief interaction.
Yes, young lady, I know this lesson is lame. But you’ll pass this class easily, and still others will fail.

My phone chirps again, the vibration triggering against my leg. I pull the phone up from the bag to my lap, glancing at the screen to see a text from Houston.

Biting my lip to hide the smile Houston puts on my face, I glance back up to the front of the class, the professor now engrossed in his own voice, the entire row in front of me staring at him with expressions of blankness—which match the notes they’ve written on their many empty computer screens. He’s right; a lot of these people are still going to fail.

I write back to Houston.

I hit SEND and get a response from him almost immediately.

I liked his first question better. Yes, I’ll go to a baseball tournament with you. That’s an easy answer. The second question, unless he is expecting me to respond with
we’re texting, that’s what we’re doing,
which I very much doubt, is the kind riddled with expectations and pitfalls. That question is full-blown butterflies and fairytales. And I just kicked that shit out of my head. Okay, so maybe it was five minutes ago, but I kicked that shit out all the same.

Leah, Leah, Leah.

My finger is hovering over the response area when another message from him sneaks in.

Too late, Houston. It’s out there now.

I write back quickly, because at least this part I can answer.

Thank god he doesn’t text again. I check about a kajillion more times anyhow, because
fucking butterflies and fairytales!
But my answer is always the only thing left to see.

No.

That’s the only word I see. No, no, no, no, no! I close my eyes, morphing it into
Leah, Leah, Leah, Leah, Leah.

The class begins to shuffle notes and students are getting to their feet, which means it’s time to switch rooms and move to the lab. For added measure, I pair myself with the girl who usually sits up front and asks lots of questions. She’s one of those thorough students, and even though I don’t need her help for my grade, I do need her to stretch out this dissection assignment. I also need to see my sister—and her friend Rowe—for lunch, to talk about boy problems, which makes me want to throw up. Not because I don’t like talking about guys, and plotting and gossip. I just don’t like talking about feelings. I’m actually a little grateful Rowe will be there. She won’t pry like Cass. She’ll let me pretend things are hypothetical. I wonder if I can find a way to get my sister to leave? Probably not.

I stretch my lab project to the very end, and by one, Cass is texting me, demanding my drink order for the pizza place at the other end of campus. She’s also sent a picture of the greasiest pizza I’ve ever seen. I type that I’m on my way and have no intention of eating that insult for food.

As unappetizing as the pizza was to me, it’s the second part of her text that has my stomach in knots. It’s going to be pretty hard to talk about him when he’s actually there. Not to mention, he’s only there because of his stupid text fuck up.